


Native Resolution

by Suribot



Category: s-CRY-ed
Genre: Fights, Gen, Original Character(s), Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suribot/pseuds/Suribot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the ill-fated takeover attempt of the Lost Ground by the Mainland, Native Alters continue to defend their increasingly verdant home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Native Resolution

"I wonder if she's dreaming right now." 

He didn't speak the words aloud. He wasn't really the kind of person to talk to himself. Even an internal monologue or discussion was out of the question. His thoughts were direct and to the point. That's what he thought as he looked up at the falling sun. She was always an early riser, working on the farm, doing anything she could to help put food on the table. It wouldn't be out of character for her to turn in at sundown. Still, it was unlikely that she'd be dreaming just now. He did not muse on this. That was the beginning and end of his thought. 

A sunset over the Lost Ground was a thing of beauty that the man did not truly appreciate. A sunset was a sunset and he'd seen a thousand before. Every one was the same to him, changed only by who he viewed it with and for years now, he'd been viewing sunsets alone, if at all. He preferred the daylight. It made it easier to see the airships and alter-enhanced fighter craft coming. The Mainland had not shied away from battle maneuvers during the night, which usually ended precisely the same way they did during the day. His fist twisting atomically rearranged metals until they snapped. He liked that sound. It was an unnaturally consistent sound, a product of the smallest building blocks of matter being arranged in completely identical ways by the mass-produced artificial alter users. They were many and he was one, but even if their many grew a hundred times in size, they would not equal his one.

Kazuma the Shell Bullet, native alter user and potentially one of the most powerful beings ever to walk the planet, lifted his shirt and scratched at his stomach. Black lines made sharp angles across his well-toned body, marking the division where his alter had split him apart to rebuild him better. The seams that had formed in the years since he first heard the words "bullet" in relation to something his body was capable of. The first time he used it, he only broke a cinder block. Last week, he split a battleship in half. It was easy. It felt like crushing a grape. That tiny bit of resistance before the 'pop.' It felt good. 

There was a gust of air and immediately, he opened his eye. There stood before him someone who looked a bit familiar. Thin, taller than he'd expect, black suit, sunglasses. Silver hair. That was it. He looked a bit like that bastard Mujo. The faces were totally different though. His silver hair, cut short, gave him a bit of a military look. He wore black gloves and looked a bit serious. A smile would not suit that face at all.

"Man, oh man." Kazuma grinned just slightly, curled up and leapt to his feet. When shoe connected with earth, the cracks of air began, matter breaking down and reassembling around his body. Armor of gold and crimson formed around his right arm. Iridescent mist and powder, detritus from the molecules shattered and atoms splitting around him, coalesced into his alter. The Shell Bullet would be more than enough. "It's been ages since I've seen one of you assholes."

He removed the sunglasses. Green eyes. Did Mujo have green eyes? If asked, Kazuma wouldn't remember. He didn't particularly care. "My name is-"

Kazuma spun on one foot, the giant golden propeller on his back spinning as he catapulted forward, propelled by the equivalent of a jet engine with intent to rend flesh and shatter bone. As usual, the first punch missed. Even after years of using it, he still needed a moment to adjust to his alter that he did not feel like waiting. The earth shook and a fresh crater created itself below the alter user, earth compacted tightly by the force of his blow. "I don't really care what your name is, pal."

He didn't sneer. He didn't laugh. He didn't even have that condescending look that Mujo bastard had that drove him so insane. To be honest, he didn't look like he wanted to be here. "I know you don't."

Kazuma stood up, blade back spinning as he grinned, right eye wide open, pupils tight and full of bloodlust. "Then why even bother giving it? Afraid you won't be able to say it again after I break that face of yours?"

"I was trying to be polite." He ignored the dirt on his suit. "I'm not here to fight you."

Kazuma laughed. No snappy comeback, no disbelief, no questioning. He just laughed at the guy and considered pointing while doing it.

"I'm not. I have a job and ... since fighting you has never worked out, I've been instructed to seek your aid." He wasn't laughing. He was serious.

"Somebody wants you dead, pal." Kazuma shrugged, his altered-up arm exaggerating the gesture. "Or they told a joke that you just didn't get."

"It's not a joke. This-" 

He didn't have time to blink. The silver-haired man stopped talking, his eyes directly locked with the Native Alter that _defined_ Native Alters. He convinced himself that he had blinked and missed it, but that did not do justice to the speed that he moved at. "Piss off."

The silver-haired mainland alter fell backward. He wasn't scared. At least, he didn't look it. It was the force. The moving air that had been displaced by Kazuma. 

"If you don't want to fight, then don't. Leave. If you stay, I'll start the fight and finish it before you try to introduce yourself next time. So piss off." The native alter turned away and kicked off the ground below, propelling him up. He'd activated his alter. He needed to use it. Burn off some steam. A fight like that would be boring. So he'd find something else to do. Maybe clear a chunk of mountain to make room for some farm. That'd be productive. 

The silver-haired man stood up off the ground, still ignoring the filth all over his suit. Night had fallen, so there was no purpose to the sunglasses. He took his leave, hoping to find what he'd come for.


End file.
